


Fly Apart

by eigengrau



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Dubious Consent, Kink Meme, M/M, Manipulation, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 17:18:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/801171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eigengrau/pseuds/eigengrau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal's favorite thing about the afterglow are Will's panic attacks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fly Apart

Will Graham has a complicated relationship with physical contact. He'd said as much the first time he went to Hannibal's office, apologetically refusing a handshake with eyes directed at the floor, shaking his head. Normally Hannibal would kill for such rudeness but he has already seen Will at work, seen the twisted cogs and gears turning in his head. He's seen Will covered in blood, and he knows already that to kill Will over some perceived slight would be to do him a disservice. Everyone has their quirks, after all, and Will is quietly mortified by his inability to perform such a simple task of human manners. That isn't rude. It's simply a symptom of the condition that wraps his beautiful brain.  
  
Hannibal nods and is careful not to sit too close during their conversations.  
  
Will can touch, but the touch of another will set him into badly concealed discomfort or even panic. He tells Hannibal of Jack's fingers adjusting his glasses, of Beverly correcting his stance at the firing range, of the tremors and ripples of fear they send through him. He doesn't know why it's a problem for him. He doesn't like it. Will wants to be normal, to be able to have someone tap him on the shoulder without sending him spiralling into hyperventilation. Hannibal has watched him when it happens. He's seen Will's shoulders tense at the brush of fingertips, muscles coiled tight. He's seen him shake once the hand is removed. Will has exercises to control his breathing, to talk himself down, but it's only a stalling tactic. He goes home and kneels in his shower, under scalding water, and he shakes so hard that his thin bony knees knock against the porcelain sides of the bath tub.  
  
Hannibal knows. Will tells him.  
  
When Hannibal reaches out one night and cups Will's face in both his hands, the sudden terror that freezes in his blue eyes is breathtaking. Stillness infuses into his bones, rendering them brittle at Hannibal's touch. He keeps his eyes open when Hannibal leans down to kiss him, deep and filthy, and his tongue lies flat on his palette as Hannibal strokes it with his own. His body is quivering like the string of a bow strung far too tight, like all Hannibal has to do is pull it back and let fly for it to snap.  
  
"Will," Hannibal mutters against Will's lips, "Do you want me to stop?"  
  
"No," his breath is stuttering and hot, "no, please." His fingers curl into the fabric of Hannibal's suit and he grips him like a vice, knuckles turning white as Hannibal kisses down his throat. Hannibal un-pries them and guides them to rest on the arms of the great chair, where they clutch even more desperately.  
  
When Hannibal pulls Will's cock from his trousers and swallows him to the root in one smooth movement, Will jerks, once, like he's been shocked by electricity. After that he just stares straight ahead, trembling, nearly vibrating in his seat as Hannibal bobs his head up and down, mouth wet and warm and tight as he sucks Will down. He only makes one noise, at the exact moment that he comes, seed spilling down Hannibal's throat, and that noise is a sob.  
  
Hannibal rises, wiping at the corner of his mouth with a handkerchief carefully, so as not to remove Will's taste from his lips. He surveys the tableau in front of him. Will is slouched in the chair, shaking like a leaf in the wind, skin pale, eyes dilated wide and vacant, a cold sweat beading on his forehead. His breathing is shallow and far too fast, and his cheeks are wet with salty tears. He gulps at the air, choked by his own constricted throat.  
  
Hannibal wants to flip him over, strip him of clothes and dignity, fuck him until he finally goes limp with exhaustion. He wants to drive out all the fear of touch, the weakness. Will is a fragile creature. Hannibal is not quite please with how he has been made. Feels that he needs to break him, maybe, to rebuild him out of a stronger material. To destroy a crude clay pinch-pot and mold it into an ivory Galatea.   
  
"Don't leave me," Will wheezes through labored breath, trembling hands reaching out for something, anything. Will can touch but cannot be touched, but Hannibal has never been one to turn down a challenge. He smiles and ducks his head forward, so that panicked, hyperventilating Will can bury his fingers in his greying hair and tug at the roots. You can't rush these things, Hannibal thinks, as Will's fingers knead at his scalp and his breathing starts to return to normal. You have to give him back a little control, just a little. Just enough to let him think he has some.  
  
Next time he will not be so charitable.


End file.
